


In Loss, Freedom

by runsinthefamily



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another kmeme fill: I'd like to start this off by saying that I love NPCs. I really, really do. That said, I want to see your Warden paired with an NPC. I'm talking as random as you please, so long as they aren't an LI or even a companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loss, Freedom

When Duncan turned and walked away, Elissa very nearly sat down on the ground where he left her. It was his will that had kept her moving, kept her upright and eating and walking, day after day, one foot after another, to this bridge in this ruin. Now that he'd taken his direction away, she couldn't think what to do.

If she had been here as a Cousland, her duty would have been clear. Present herself to her brother's camp, take on his tasks until he returned from his mission, care for the people who would have been left behind, the cooks and groomsmen and launders. It would have been tedious and aggravating, but it would have been clearly her responsibility.

Even that surety had been pulled out from under her, leaving her adrift. Grey Wardens held no titles, kept no allegiances beyond the Order. She did not think she could bear to visit Cousland people and know that they would never again be her charge. Let alone be the one to deliver the news that their home was gone, the Couslands slain, her brother the only one left.

"Lady, are you alright?"

She was sitting on the ground. A soldier bent over her and she could see the worried faces of the other archers beyond him, their attention torn between their watch over the battlements and the spectacle she was making of herself.

"Yes, fine." She allowed the man to pull her to her feet. "Just tired. A long journey."

Doubt painted his face but he let her go without protest. She walked away down the ancient, crumbling bridge. To the Grey Warden's camp, then. There might be a bed, if her nightmares would let her make use of it for more than an hour at a time.

The army camp was haphazard and confusing, with mages casting spells not thirty feet from where men lay dying, deserters caged next to the quartermaster, and the King arguing tactics in a ruin open to the air, precious maps spread out under the lowering sky. She stumbled about for a time, unable to find the griffon pennant of the Wardens, unable to get her bearings.

She found herself outside the King's tent in the end, figured that it was central enough that Duncan could find her when needed, and sat heavily down on a barrel. It began to rain. She tilted her head back into the cold, stinging drops and closed her eyes. Her father had always said that rain was the Maker, washing the world clean.

She wished she still believed that.

"Lady Cousland."

Elissa opened her eyes to see the King, flanked by a couple of pages who were desperately trying to shield the rolled maps they held from the downpour. He was regarding her with concern and confusion. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Her mother would have been scandalized, to see her sitting in the King's presence. She dragged herself off the barrel and stiffened her spine. "No, Majesty, I just stopped to rest. I was looking for the Warden encampment."

"This place is a dreadful tangle, isn't it?" He grinned at her.

One of the pages cleared his throat.

"Oh, of course, get those inside," he bade the boys, who scuttled past the guard at the pavilion's entrance gratefully. "Well, can I offer you a refuge from the weather, Lady Cousland?" he asked her. "It would be an honour, truly. Or, I suppose, no. No chaperone," he corrected himself.

"I'm not a Cousland anymore, Majesty," said Elissa. "I could fuck your entire army and it wouldn't matter a jot."

There was a moment of shocked silence, broken by a peal of thunder so loud that for a moment Elissa thought part of the ruins had fallen in.

"You're coming in," said Cailin. "I can't let you ... you need to get warmed up and dry and some food in you and uh, some whiskey perhaps." He put a hand on her shoulder and steered her in through the heavy canvas flaps.

The King's pavilion featured sumptuous rugs, braziers to heat the air, hangings to keep the damp out, and actual furniture instead of camp chairs and folding cots. Servants stood deferentially along the edges, and a page stood beside the entrance bearing a tray with two steaming cups of mulled wine. Cailin pressed one into Elissa's hands and then waved the boy off with a command of "Food. And a robe for the Lady."

"Sit," he insisted and pushed her into an armchair full of pillows before she could protest.

The King's valet stepped forward and began to unbuckle Cailin's armor, handing each piece off to another man to be hung on the armor stand.

Elissa sipped her wine politely and tried not to remember the times she and her brother had performed the same duty for their father, or one another. They'd always joked and roughhoused a bit, rubbed sore muscles and complained about the way the others reeked beneath the steel and leather and padding.

Her father had died in velvet and silk. His armor was probably even now being altered for Rendon's fat, useless son Thomas. Certainly it would never fit Howe's narrow frame. Her father had been a doughty man, tall and broad. He'd seemed smaller, laying on the floor of the pantry, blood at the corners of his mouth...

She drank the rest of her wine all at once and shuddered as it heated her throat and stomach.

"A bath, Lady?" A woman was touching her arm.

Elissa blinked and realized that Cailin was gone, and the sounds of splashing emanated from the rear of the pavilion. It was large enough to be split into canvas-walled rooms and apparently Cailin had retreated to one. She stood, obedient, and let the woman escort her to another, clearly Cailin's dressing chamber, with chests and and stands all overflowing with finery. A tub sat in a quickly-cleared space, steaming invitingly.

The woman unbuckled Elissa with economy and care, if not the reverent ceremony that the valets had displayed. Elissa let the woman undress her like a doll, coax her forward, settle her into the water. When the woman lifted a cloth and a bar of soap she tried to work up the energy to protest, but the first warm swipe across her shoulderblades felt too good and instead she let her head fall forward in surrender.

The woman washed her hair, trimmed her nails, scrubbed and then massaged her feet and then toweled her off briskly. She produced a thick woolen robe trimmed with fur and embroidery and then led Elissa back into the main room, where Cailin sat, also robed and clean and already digging into a meal of cold ham, bread, and cheese.

"Sit, please," he said. "Eat something. You look about ready to fall over."

Eating had become a duty since that night at Highever, a necessary chore to keep her body functioning. "Your Majesty is too kind," she said and seated herself.

He grimaced slightly. "You're a Grey Warden now, are you not? No ranks, no allegiance! Call me Cailin."

"I am not a Warden yet," said Elissa. "Duncan spoke of a ritual that I must undergo first."

"Still, they have claimed you. No longer just ordinary, hey?"

"Your Majesty," she said.

"Cailin," he interrupted. "Please."

"Cailin." Her throat was tight. "The Wardens would not have claimed me if my family had not been butchered in their bedclothes. Forgive me for not sharing your enthusiasm for the honor of it."

She had shocked him, again. She'd always had a quick tongue and too loose a rein upon it, but it seemed that the small modicum of propriety her mother had hammered into her had died along with the woman who'd shaped it.

"I'm sorry," said the King. He sounded it, quiet and subdued. "I - the Wardens are heroes and I did not think - well, I did not think. Forgive me, Lady."

By the Maker she was tired. Tired of aching, tired of thinking, tired of trying to piece together the bits of what she had been into whatever it was that she was supposed to become. She was nothing right now, no one. Not a Cousland, not a Warden, not a daughter or a soldier or a Lady. She was, she realized, free.

"If you are to be Cailin, then let me be Elissa," she said. "I still have claim upon that name, at least. And I believe you promised me whiskey."

The first shot burned like fire going down and Elissa coughed and gasped until tears ran from her eyes.

Cailin patted her on the shoulder. "I can call for wine instead," he offered.

She shook her head, caught her breath, and poured herself another. A more cautious approach proved worthwhile, the whiskey igniting in her belly and warming her from the inside out. The hollow place beneath her heart hurt a little less.

"I know the circumstances are terrible," said Cailin, "but I still think it's remarkable, being chosen for the Order. They don't take many women, you know. You must have really impressed Duncan."

"He asked about it the night before ... the night before. My father forbade it. I wanted to go," said Elissa. "I knew it was impossible, I had a duty as a Cousland, to marry well and make strong alliances and breed strong children. Still, when Duncan said that he would have taken me over Ser Gilmore ... " She tipped her glass back.

"Yes," said Cailin. He leaned his head on a hand, eyes dreamy. "Fighting darkspawn, shoulder to shoulder with your sworn brothers. Just a blade in your hand and your foe before you."

"Something like that," said Elissa. "Certainly there would have been no weaving. Or embroidery."

"Or foreign emmisaries," agreed Cailin. "Or feuding banns or border disputes."

"Think positively," said Elissa. "Perhaps in the battle you'll be tainted and then they'll have to let you join."

His startled expression was too funny. Elissa snorted as she reached for the bottle again.

"You are really the most ... forthright woman I have ever met," he said.

"I can be as forthright as I want," she said. "I'm a feather on the wind, your Majesty. Nothing I do matters anymore. To anyone. I'm free!" she sang out. "All it took was losing everything. They killed my nephew, did I tell you that? Eight years old. Ran him right through. Don't have to worry about him anymore!" She knocked back another shot. "My father, my mother, Ser Gilmore, Nan. There was blood on the walls. The _walls_."

Cailin, his face pale, put a hand on the bottle as she grabbed it again.

"What?" she demanded. "Get me drunk enough to talk but not enough to forget. You bastard."

"You need sleep, and maybe to speak with a Chantry Mother, not to get drunk with me just because I admire the Wardens." He pried the bottle out of her hand. "I'm sorry, La - Elissa. This was a bad idea."

"Well, here's another one," she said, and grabbed him by the collar to pull him into a kiss.

She was drunk and he was off balance and her lips met his crookedly, but it didn't seem to matter. His mouth was open a bit, in surprise no doubt, and Elissa took ruthless advantage of the fact. Her tongue slipped past his teeth, coaxed and curled and tasted him, all whiskey and cloves. Ser Gilmore had always tasted of mint and ale.

Cailin pushed her away with hands that were not altogether steady. "Elissa, don't."

"Why not?" she asked. "There's no reason not to. I'm not marketable anymore and everyone knows you aren't faithful to the Queen."

"I shouldn't take such advantage," he said but his eyes were on her lips.

She ran her tongue slowly along the bottom one and then bit it lightly, watching the way his pupils dilated. "Just do this for me, Cailin," she said. "I want to feel something other than ... I just want to forget, for a little while." She leaned forward, letting the robe gape at the neck. "Please," she whispered.

"This is wrong," he told her, his eyes falling to her cleavage.

"It's the only thing that's felt right in weeks," she said. She stood, stepped forward to straddle his legs. "It doesn't mean anything," she said, and bent her head to kiss him again, light and sweet this time. "It doesn't matter," she breathed in his ear. Slowly, she sank onto his lap, felt the growing bulge of his arousal. "A small space, to be Cailin and Elissa, no past, no future. Just this," she rocked against him and he groaned.

"You're not a woman," he said, breathless. "You're a demon of desire."

"I'm yours," she said, cupping his face in her hands. "If you want me."

"If I want you," he said. "Maker's breath." He kissed her, finally, fiercely, and she felt need move in her like an ocean tide.

When she and Gilmore had done all their experimenting it had been passionate and driven and occasionally desperate but there had always been that lingering edge of respectful caution on his part. Just enough to keep her aware that he was never letting go all the way, never letting his desire overrule his head. She'd leaned on his self-discipline to preserve her virginity. She'd always felt safe with him.

Cailin was not safe.

His lips were demanding, his hands insistent. Where Gilmore would have paused, made sure that she was comfortable, Cailin simply pushed forward. He lifted her, set her on the table, stripped her robe from her shoulders and ravished her breasts with hands and lips. The cups overturned and rolled onto the floor. He was skilled, and his touch pleasurable, but it was his sheer unmasked lust that was doing her in. She fell back on the table, closing her eyes.

"No," said Cailin. "Look at me."

She dragged herself up to her elbows and watched as he sank to his knees, shoved her robe up to her hips and put one of her thighs over his shoulder. This was surprising, she had to admit. The King, going to the trouble of licking cunt? And, oh, he was ... good at it.

His tongue slipped between her labia, coaxing them apart, laving them and leaving her spread and wet. Long flat licks along the length of her awoke all her nerves and left her panting, her stomach muscles jumping. When he slid one thick finger into her and began teasing her clit with tiny jabs and flicks of the tip of his tongue, her hips stuttered into motion.

She was close, so close, when he abruptly quit, rising to his feet and wiping his face on the sleeve of his robe unselfconsciously. "Mmmmm," he said, smiling at her.

"Maker damn you," she muttered without heat.

He took her off the table and into his arms. "Only a reprieve, Elissa," he said.

He took her through a canvas doorway into a smaller space, occupied nearly entirely by a massive bed. Briefly she considered the expense and difficulty of hauling the monstrous thing to a battlefield but then Cailin threw her onto it, startling a laugh out of her.

He grinned down at her and shucked his robe with swift grace. By Andraste, he was a comely man. And knew it, too, from the way he stood there, nearly posing, letting her drink in the hard muscle, the way broad shoulders swept down to narrow hips and long, strong thighs, his cock straight and fine in a bed of golden hair.

She started to free herself from her own robe, twisted around her from his manhandling, but he shook his head and climbed onto the bed.

"Let me," he said and knelt over her. He took handfuls of the rich fabric, tensed his upper body, and ripped it.

The sound was thick, sensual. Trailing edges of torn embroidery tickled her skin. His eyes darkened. He did it again, rending the robe from hem to waist and she gasped. One last effort, his lips drawn back from his teeth, biceps flexing, and the thing fell away in rags.

"Holy Maker," said Elissa. Her voice was heavy.

He took hold of her ankle and dragged her toward him across the coverlet. "You want to forget?" he asked her, low and intent. "I'm going to make you forget your own name."

He ate her out again, unrelentingly. Her first orgasm was a quick bolt of pleasure from which he pushed her immediately into a second, long and drawn out and nearly painful in intensity. She scrabbled away from him afterward, gasping and protesting and shoving at his head. He followed, keeping two fingers buried in her, pressing his palm down comfortingly over her wet curls.

"Giving up already?" he said. His fingers moved inside her. "I can feel your maidenhead," he said musingly. "It's a bit tattered. I'm surprised it's there at all. You kiss like a woman, I suppose you've dallied with a knight or two." His fingers scissored, stretching her, and she bit her lip. "What restraint they showed," he breathed. His fingers slipped out of her, gleaming. He licked them clean.

"I'm not looking for restraint," she said and wrapped one leg around him to draw him in.

He let her, smiling. "I will show none," he promised.

He was so big, Maker help her, he nearly blotted out the light from the braziers as he loomed over her, hips nudging her thighs wide, arms like pillars bracing on either side of her. His cock slid against her, hot and hard. She tipped her pelvis, he bent his elbows, and then he was pressing into her, spreading her, breaking her open. No restraint, he had said, and he was true to his word, taking her with one thrust, eyes boring into hers, lips drawn back from his teeth.

There was a single flash of pain, hardly more than a pinch. It was gone in a blink, leaving her with only the unbelievable reality of him inside her, their bodies connected, the last frazzled remnant of Lady Cousland-that-was unraveling in their heat.

He gave her no time to adjust, no space to breathe or rest or contemplate. Instead he just started fucking her. He set a punishing pace, using his magnificent body like a machine. She cried out, hands clutching at the bedclothes, ankles locking behind his back, trying to find a way to brace herself. It was impossible. He drove her forward with each thrust until he let out a curse, leaned into his left arm and grabbed her ass with his right hand, lifting her bodily off the bed. She arched her back, desperately, as he commenced again, at greater speed, to batter himself into her.

He was whispering gutturally, curses and endearments and filth, and she was coming apart. His movements turned erratic, his words failed him, and then he was bowing backward, mouth open. The sight of him was too much. Elissa came again with a scream, every last bit of her flying loose, dark flutters like the wings of birds at the edges of her vision.

******************

She left him sleeping, buckled on her armor without assistance, and stepped out into the foggy half-light before dawn. The Warden camp was already stirring when she came upon it.

Duncan handed her a cup of tea as she squatted by the fire.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked.

She met his keen gaze squarely. "Ready," she said.

"Yes," he said. "I think you are."


End file.
